Some Nights
by BryonieAnne
Summary: A series of drabbles about John's nights with Sherlock, starting pre-relationship, leading up to established. Follows Some Nights by Fun. Reviews are love!
1. Chapter 1

**Here's a series of drabbles about nights of John's life, following the song Some Nights by Fun. Hope you like it! Reviews are love!**

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_**Some nights, I stay up cashing in my bad luck.**_

John Watson groaned loudly as he sunk into his armchair; the flat was quiet and somber. Sherlock had been in one of his moods since the last case ended, and he rarely did anything that didn't involve sulking on the sofa or sighing at his microscope. When he was in these moods, he refused to talk to John, which meant that John's already lonely night was getting lonelier.

He had had a date earlier that night. A nice girl named Lucy. She was pretty enough, and rather polite, but nothing could make up for how uninteresting she was. Her personality was blander than the white sauce on his spaghetti. He'd spent an hour and a half trying to get her to talk about _anything_, before finally throwing some money on the table and excusing himself.

And now, he was at home in his flat, and was it too much to ask for a _little_ stimulating conversation?

He looked at the blue lump that was Sherlock, curled up in the foetal position on the sofa, and sighed loudly. "Goodnight Sherlock," he said sourly.

He didn't even wait for the replying grunt.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2! Hope you like :)**

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**_Some nights, I call it a draw._**

The sweet, tranquil sounds of Sherlock's violin danced through 221 B Baker Street, whispering in John's ears, like something unearthly. John had managed to thoroughly ruin another date, because, as it turns out, once the subject of Sherlock Holmes is brought up (innocently enough) John finds he can't seem to _stop_ talking about his favourite Sociopath. Which caused yet another woman to storm out of the restaurant questioning his sexuality.

John had been livid as he mounted the steps towards his flat. As he turned the handle, though, he heard the melodious rhythm seeping through the door, and all his anger just seemed to melt away. Instead of screaming his head off at Sherlock for ruining another date, he just drifted towards his armchair and watched Sherlock, as was normal.

The violin seemed to promise him things. It promised him happiness, adventures, and the thrill of the chase. It promised him contentment and maybe the odd fight. But mostly, it promised him Sherlock.

And John would never refuse.


	3. Chapter 3

**So my computer broke and I'm a little dumb and couldn't really figure out how to properly write or upload anything off my phone. But I seem to have gotten it now! I'm sorry for the late addition, but I really appreciated all your reviews and follows! :)**

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_**Some nights, I wish that my lips could build a castle.**_

John tapped angrily on the keys of his laptop, trying to write about Sherlock's latest case. It wasn't a spectacularly interesting case, a 5 at best as Sherlock would call it, but John felt the need to write something. He had been sitting at the computer for more than an hour and had little more than a sentence written. He huffed noisily.

Sherlock, who had been curled on the sofa, looked up as John let out the feral noise and groaned. "I'm trying to think, John!" He threw his hands up in the air. "Ah! Perfect, you've ruined a perfectly sound train of thought." As he spoke he sat straight on the sofa with a flourish and resolved himself to glare at his flatmate.

John only laughed. "It's your bloody case! I can't seem to write it in a way that any sane person would want to read. You have to admit, it wasn't very interesting, and the robber broke down as soon as we caught him."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes a bit as John spoke. He tented his hands and rested them against his lips, staring at the doctor. "I found it rather enlightening."

"Enlightening?" John scratched his head. "Don't tell me the robber helped you further understand the criminal class or anything. He was a terrible criminal. I'm not sure I understand what was so interesting to you."

Sherlock rose from his perch on the couch and walked slowly towards John, one foot in front of the other, his scrutinizing gaze still locked on the doctor. "Then I guess you never will," Sherlock drawled, his hand pressing softly onto John's bad shoulder. Sherlock lowered his head slightly so his lips were millimeters away from John's ear. "Goodnight, my dear Watson."

John froze as he watched Sherlock delicately traipse up the stairs. In his mind, he was replaying the entirety of the last few days on the case. John realized that at least once every hour, Sherlock had physically touched him.

It started with a pat on the back as Sherlock rushed John out the door. Then a touch of knees in the cab. A hand brushing has as Sherlock passed him an evidence bag. Their arms grazing as they raced after the perp. Sherlock grabbing John's hand and patting it after the robber had been apprehended. And now, a touch on the shoulder, and a breath on the ear.

John grinned from ear to ear remembering. "Well," he said to himself, smugly. "I guess I won't bother writing up that last case. It's a bit too personal."

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**Hope you liked it!**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Some nights, I wish they'd just fall off.**_

Pain. Searing pain.

Every little piece of his body ached and jolted. He could feel the blood seeping into his jeans and slithering down his leg. His whole world seemed to spin and he crashed to the ground, stretched out, exhausted. His teeth ground together to keep him from crying out, to keep Sherlock's mind focused on the serial killer. John could handle the pain for a few more minutes if it meant a murderer would be off the streets.

He trained his eyes on the sparkling stars in the sky above him, bright spots of white floating in a pitch black ocean. His eyes threatened to close but he wouldn't allow them. He couldn't pass out. He wouldn't. He'd been shot before in much worse conditions, although he had to admit the damp pavement of London wasn't an ideal place to get shot.

"John! Is that you?" John heard Lestrade shout, his footsteps getting louder as he approached. "Are you okay?"

John tried to respond but the stars seemed to be burning into his eyes. He struggled to keep them open just a little longer.

He faintly heard more footsteps approach him, and he heard a smooth velvety voice cut through the darkness. "John. You're going to be okay."

Everything faded to black.

-x-

"Please, Sherlock, find my dog. Dull. Mr Holmes, I fear my wife's been cheating. Definitely. Sherlock, make out with me. Really? Who writes this rubbish?" Sherlock's voice drifted through John's ears as he began the task of waking up.

"I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe you should take one of the quieter cases, anyway," Mrs. Hudson's voice rang out clear. Was John back at Baker Street, then? "It'll get you away from that bloody sofa for a few hours. John will wake up when he's ready."

"Not an option," Sherlock's voice was dismissive, signaling the end of the conversation. "I won't leave John. The whole time I'd be on a case my mind would be here at 221b and that simply wouldn't do."

John chanced a look out of one eye. He was on the sofa at Baker Street, and Sherlock was puttering around in the kitchen. John couldn't see him but he could hear the knobs on the microscope squeak as he adjusted them. He heard the faint sound of footsteps, must be Mrs Hudson returning to her own flat.

"That's a case I'd like to crack," Sherlock spoke aloud, clearly not knowing John had regained consciousness. "Why, when I am not with him, is my mind so enthralled by him? I cannot be away from him, or my mind buzzes too far out of control like a train off its tracks. Ah, he is the tracks to my train, the conductor of my light, the magnifying glass to my eye. Alone, I think of nothing but him, but when we are together my brain can function properly; deduce and solve, rinse and repeat. So, the solution is simple. I need him beside me always. Meaning, Sherlock, you mustn't allow him to get shot again." John heard Sherlock rise from the kitchen chair, and move towards his bedroom. "Oh, John. What you do to me."

John tried to speak but he felt as though his lips had fallen off.


End file.
